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Death has pretty blue eyes like yours.
They flutter lightly in my face and flicker
into the oblivion that was set before me.
This abyss I was forged in fills with locusts
and all I want them to do is dissipate or
relocate into the world and consume it
the way we were consumed by this whirlpool-
Charybdis herself pulling me under the depths.

You always liked to play dress-up, and you still do.
That perfume you found in your grandmother’s closet
suits you in your little world that I was never a part of.
I was never pretty enough for your doll collection
so I walked home alone in the rain, and my silver locket
heart rusted over and fell to dust on the pungent asphalt.
And then I saw the headlights like a madcat’s eyes
and heard the screeching brakes as the pain and darkness mixed.

Death has pretty blues like yours
as I wake up and he’s staring at me.

What would the title of your autobiography be?

I Found People Killing Time, So I Found Time to Kill People
   

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